Can You See Me Now?
by woodbyne
Summary: The tenant in the apartment above Arthur's has a wide variety of very irritating pastimes. Juggling bowling balls (badly). Jumping on beds and marching in hobnail boots, if the noises are anything to go by. But what was meant to be a confrontation leads to anything but. UKCan


**Words: 4755.**

**This was largely based off of an RP I did with my delicious Kiwi, because she just does the most fantastically gentlemanly Arthur and I'm absolutely enamoured with the idea of Matthew being blind. Also, someone reviewed one of my other stories, "I love it when you write UKCan and no one dies." Alright, fair enough, you have this fic where no one dies, but fair warning, kind Guest; I have accepted that challenge.**

**Based off of Voltaire's song **_The Man Upstairs_**. Sort of.**

**This is Number Three from the poll in the profile page. Go vote for your favourite plot to see it published next!**

Arthur clenched his teeth angrily as the new tenant in the apartment above his made another heavy thump. Was he juggling bowling balls? This had been going on for two weeks now, ever since whoever it was had moved in. Day and night; from dawn until dusk; thump, thump, bang crash. It was enough to drive the most sweet-tempered, mild-mannered of people up the wall and sideways. And despite his best efforts, Arthur was neither the most sweet-tempered nor the most mild-mannered of individuals.

So after two weeks and a crash that made him think his ceiling was caving in, Arthur climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of apartment directly above his own; 1497. There was much more banging and a few muttered curses before the Englishman heard the lock being pawed at.

"Who is it?" a not-quite-American accent called.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland, I'm from downstairs. I just wondered if you had a minute to speak with me?" polite was a good start. Once the formalities were through, he could demand to know why this man was jumping up and down on his head like a kangaroo with a pogo-stick.

The chain-lock rattled and the door opened. The man who opened it looked a little battered – he was nursing a rather nasty looking bump on the forehead and his other hand was rubbing gingerly at the side of his knee like that hurt too. His reddish-blond hair was sticking up at unusual angles and his shirt was on backwards. Tall, thin, and slightly gaunt, the man looked a little bit like a ragamuffin waif from a Dickens novel –though perhaps in a modern setting.

"Hi, Arthur, I'm Matthew. Erm, I'd ask you in but I'm sure the place is a bit of a tip," he laughed a little nervously, extending a pale hand to shake. Arthur took it, his grip firm. The other's hand was strong, which was a promising thing. Strong hands; strong man, or so the Englishman's father had always said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Matthew. And that's quite alright. I just came over to ask about the noises that have been coming from your apartment?" Matthew's gaze was unfocused and just to the left of where Arthur was standing and it was really irritating. His eyes also had an odd glaze to them, slightly… milky? A little dead-eye like – Oh God! He was blind!

Arthur looked from side to side, just to check that there was no one in the corridor and slowly raised his arm, waving it in front of Matthew's face. The blind man frowned, eyebrows plunging.

"Very clever," he said; his voice curt, "Just because I can't see you," he waved a hand vaguely at his own face, "Doesn't mean that I don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, uh," the Englishman coughed, "My apologies, I was simply curious." For safe measure, he tucked his hand behind his back.

"Yes, well," Matthew's tone softened, "It would have to come out at some point. I'm still getting used to the layout of the apartment, so I'm bumping into things. It'll settle down in a few days. It's just that damn coffee table. It gets me every time," there was the grit-toothed grimace of someone who was finding a simple task challenging on his face, "I asked my brother to warn the neighbours though. It's not like him to miss someone. He loves talking to people."

The Englishman pursed his lips, "Your brother wouldn't happen to be the American in 1492, would he?" he asked slowly, coming to the slow and slightly terrifying conclusion that there was definitely a resemblance between the two. Same face shape. That air-headed git and Arthur had what might be called 'friendly animosity' by some and 'The intense desire to rip each other's throats out' by others.

"Ah," Matthew said, understanding blooming in his sightless face, "You've met then. No wonder. You wouldn't happen to be 'that bastard limey in 0423,' would you?" he asked with a wry smile, and Arthur barked a laugh,

"That would be me, yes," Arthur said, half tempted to roll his eyes at the quotation marks he could hear.

"Well then, can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? It's the least I could do after banging on your ceiling. I can't believe Alfred would do that," the Canadian sighed, shaking his head.

"I would like that very much, thank you," the Englishman stepped into the apartment as Matt moved out of the doorway to let him in. It was much less messy than it had been made out to be, "By the way, your shirt is inside out."

~====o)0(o====~

"Dude," Alfred cornered Arthur as he was checking his mail before work, "You've been spending a lot of time with Mattie lately. I don't like it."

"Good morning to you, too, Alfred, but I'm afraid that the amount of time I spend with your brother is his decision; not yours." Bill, bill, catalogue, bill. No body sent actual mail these days. A pity.

"Mattie doesn't get out much. He doesn't spend a lot of time with people, and I don't like how you're taking advantage of that," Alfred frowned, shoving letters into his briefcase, "He doesn't know when people are taking advantage of him."

This time it was Arthur's turn to frown, giving the American a look of stern disapproval, "You are twins, yes? I would have assumed you knew not to underestimate your brother like that. If he can tell that he gave me the wrong tea just by my tone of voice then I'm sure he can tell when he's being, 'taken advantage of'."

"He puts way too much sugar in his tea," Alfred sighed.

"Quite so. Now, I'm afraid I shall continue to spend time with Matthew and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm really rather fond of him. Good day." And with that Arthur pulled the umbrella out from under his arm and opened it, stepping out into the deluge beyond the walls of their apartment building.

"Yeah," Alfred watched the retreating umbrella carve a passage through the downpour, "That's what I was afraid of."

~====o)0(o====~

To say that Arthur's work involved a lot of free time was absolutely laughable. The hospital he worked at was disgustingly understaffed and this resulted in him pulling double shifts so often that he had almost forgotten how long a regular shift was supposed to be.

But when he did have free time, he spent it with Matthew.

The Canadian's perception of day and night depended very much on outside stimuli, such as the temperature, the scent of the air and the beeping of his watch. Of course, his body still had its own cycle to which it stubbornly clung, but Matt wasn't averse to having that messed around with if it meant spending some time with his favourite neighbour.

Arthur hadn't meant for it to happen, of course. They'd met for coffee one morning after a particularly draining shift and he'd practically fallen asleep at the table. He might actually have done so for a few minute, he wasn't sure.

"Arthur, are you alright?" Gentle fingers kneaded at the Englishman's shoulder, perhaps a little calloused, but gentle none the less.

"Mnnah? Aagn… Sorry, lad, what was that?" the green-eyed blond had asked sleepily.

"I asked if you were okay. I think that answers my question," there was laughter in Matthew's voice, but also concern.

"Indeed. I'm sorry about that; I got in quite late last night and I'm afraid I haven't gotten much sleep." Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumped as he pressed his fingers into his eye sockets in an attempt to rouse himself from this half-dead stupor he had sunk into.

"How late is 'late'?" Was there a stern undercurrent to the Canadian's voice? That was … surprising.

"About two in the morning?" he hazarded a guess, trying to remember what time he had opened the whiskey, "I didn't get to sleep until about five, though."

"Bad day at work?" Again, there was that tone in Matthew's voice, like he was three-quarters curious and the other quarter wanted to bend Arthur over his knee and spank him like a naughty child, and the Englishman was slightly worried; trying to figure out what he had done wrong through his headache.

"It was…. Why do you ask?" Matthew leant back in his chair with a heavy sigh, picked up his coffee cup and took a gulp – it had always amazed Arthur that the lad could drink that stuff at all, let alone black and at the strength that he did – pursing his lips at the doctor.

"You smell like a hangover. And cigarettes. I thought you quit?" Ah, that explained the stern disapproval.

"I did. It was just a very bad day yesterday," Arthur said stiffly. He didn't really want to get ragged on about his vices by a boy net yet out of his teens. But at the same time, he didn't really want to push Matthew away. He was a friend; his only one outside the hospital if he was going to be brutally honest with himself.

Another long-suffering sigh.

"Next time you have a bad day, Arthur, come talk to me instead of beating your liver with a bottle of single malt, okay? I was awake last night at two, and frankly, I haven't been to sleep. So you could have come talked to me," there was sympathy, there was desperation, there was pleading. One of the things that the Englishman liked most about talking to Matthew was that he made no attempt to hide the emotions on his face. Admittedly, he could be annoyingly perceptive for someone who wasn't able to see.

"It was two in the morning, lad, I wasn't about to wake you up. And shouldn't you be getting more sleep yourself?" Turning the question back on the Canadian wasn't necessarily the nicest thing he could have done, but he didn't really want anyone probing into what he did when he came home from a bad day at work. It was ugly, and unclean, and not something he wanted to soil kind, giving Matthew with.

"I took a nap yesterday afternoon and woke up at midnight – I couldn't get back to sleep, so I did some work. I was awake, and even if I wasn't, I wouldn't have minded. I want to help you if you'll just let me," Pulling out a bunch of jangling keys, Matt thumbed through them until he came to one that felt familiar. After a few seconds spent feeling the grooves and cuts in the metal, he slipped it from its keychain and held it out; the twisted bit of gold metal was dwarfed in the centre of the Northman's pale palm, "Take it. That way you can come and go as you please without worrying about waking me up. At least you won't be alone."

There was a moment of silence in which Arthur just waited for the axe to drop, but nothing came. No downsides, no selling his soul for all eternity; just the offer of company.

"You drive a hard bargain, Williams," the Englishman sighed, taking the key, only to find his hand trapped in Matthew's.

"I do. Promise me you won't just lose the key? Promise me you'll consider this as an alternative to booze?"

"I promise, lad."

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur stared at the key and, probably because it was three in the morning, the key stared back.

His eyes were blurry, he looked a fright, he was sure, and he was itching for a drink. But… He had promised. It had been a good four months since that promise, and he had broken it a few times, but tonight… When a car crash victim barely a year younger than Matthew himself gasped his last in the doctor's arms, begging forgiveness from a father who wasn't there… It was too much. Too much. It had reminded him too much of his calm, sombre neighbour. The inexplicable need to make sure that the Canadian was alive and well was bewilderingly more powerful than the desire to have a stiff drink.

Quietly as he could, Arthur turned the key in the lock and stepped into the tiny, sparse apartment. It wasn't as though Matt needed a lot – or could have dealt with the clutter. Just as quietly, he closed the door and waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before he began to pick his way across the room to where he supposed the Canadian would be sleeping. The bedroom door was open, and Matthew was there, pale against dark sheets. So still.

On jelly legs, he made his way over to the sleeping man, and with trembling fingers, he took his pulse. Steady. Strong, beating there just under the skin. He huffed a sigh of relief, tension fading slightly from his shoulders.

In his sleep, Matthew uncurled, head tipped back under Arthur's fingers. He seemed so vulnerable. Even if he were awake, there was no way that he could see the Englishman who meant him no harm. He could be too alarmed to notice the smell of tea or the characterising accent.

Not even able to pretend that he was thinking at all, let alone clearly, the doctor shrugged off his jacket, toed off his shoes and stripped down to his wife beater and boxer shorts before climbing into the empty side of the bed. He lay there for a moment, feeling the cool sheets around him before he scooted over to Matthew's side, feeling his still-pounding heart calm as his arms wrapped around the Canadian's waist, his head resting on a pale shoulder.

For the first time in quite a while, Arthur Kirkland fell asleep peacefully.

~====o)0(o====~

He woke to butterfly's touches all across his face, memorising, relearning, discovering. A heavy sigh fell from Matthew's lungs and Arthur was very careful not to change his breathing, or twitch his face. For some reason he didn't want the Canadian to know he was awake.

"Arthur," was the quiet conclusion, fingers lingering on his cheek as the bed groaned its protest to weight being removed. There was an odd inflection to his words, and the Englishman felt an unease settle over him.

"Matthew," he answered, voice barely a whisper. But the Canuck heard him. He couldn't not have.

"I didn't realise you were awake," and now, Arthur twisted in the sheets to see his host better, there was stiffness in his tone, some kind of restraint both in his voice and in his posture as he stood there is a pair of boxers, hair messy and lips puffy from being slept on; just as he had been last night, "But now that you are, would you care to explain what you were doing in my bed?"

"You said-"

"I said you could come over. Wake me up. Have a chat. I didn't say you could sneak into my bed in the middle of the night and I never said it was okay for you to cuddle up to me like that," There was still something that he wasn't saying, and the doctor wasn't going to push. Matthew would tell him when he was good and ready.

"I'm terribly sorry, lad, I do owe you an explanation. Can I get you breakfast while I do that?" This wasn't the first time he'd encountered Matthew sans caffeine and he really didn't relish the experience. Insofar as Arthur could tell, the boy was hopelessly addicted and was an utter troll before he'd had some.

"That you do, and no, thank you, I'd rather not go out today. You can make us tea instead," Tea. Well. That was unprecedented.

"Not coffee today?" Arthur asked, getting up and pulling on yesterday's clothes, choosing to ignore that his teeth felt liked swede and his entire body felt like a chocolate éclair that had been stepped on.

"I can't change my taste? Besides, tea has more caffeine than coffee does, and something tells me that I'm going to need it today," the shirt Matthew had just wrestled into was on inside out, the Englishman noted. That usually only happened when he was seriously distracted or upset.

"Of course. Tea it is," the silence between them was uncomfortable; as maddening as that insect bite where you can't scratch in public. It was almost unbearable but both of them resisted the temptation to fill the horrible silence with useless words while the Englishman put the kettle on and readied the tea. It was a bit of a sacred process for him. No, Arthur wouldn't be caught dead bunging a teabag into a cup with some sugar and waiting for the kettle to boil. Not a chance. Usually it made Matthew laugh when he did his finicky, traditional method, but not today. No, today he'd stepped over a line, and the careful systematic process of making tea was a way to distract himself from that.

"So," the Canadian asked quietly when a cup was at last set in front of him – saucer and all, "Care to share your thoughts last night, because I am just dying to know what made-"

"Please, please don't say that. Don't say dying," the Englishman interrupted before it had even fully registered what he was doing.

"Oh," it didn't take a genius to realise that Matthew had just put two and two together, "I'm sorry."

Together they picked up their cups, sipping the liquid. Matthew's always had far too much sugar in it for Arthur's taste, and Matthew couldn't stand how sweet Arthur liked his coffee (when he deigned to soil his taste buds, that is).

"He was just a year younger than you. He lost his leg in a car accident. I managed to stop the bleeding, but the shock got him. He held onto my hand so tightly I thought he was going to break it," Arthur's tear ducts burned, his entire body feeling sluggish and leaden as he tried to take another sip of tea, "He was begging his father to forgive him for crashing the car. His parents came in just a few minutes afterwards. His father went white, couldn't seem to move. His mother just screamed. I can't even imagine their pain."

Matthew didn't say anything; he just bowed his head in understanding. Arthur didn't talk much about his work, particularly the patients he lost, which the Canadian knew had to be at least some. Not everyone could be saved, especially not in the emergency room.

"He reminded me of you. I don't know why, he just did. And I …" the Englishman stopped. He could feel unseeing eyes on him, he could feel the warmth of his teacup burning into his cold palms. Was it really alright to say this? But Matthew had asked for an explanation, and it wouldn't be fair to give him some half-arsed reasoning, "The truth is, it scared me. I wanted to make sure that you were safe, I wanted to protect you. And that's how I ended up in your bed. I'm sorry for intruding on you like that; it won't happen again."

Suddenly there was a warm hand over Arthur's, heating him more than the tea could. "It's okay. I was snappish. I was just a little surprised to wake up with a strange man wrapped around me. Now finish up your tea, you've still got half a cup left, and I'm sure that you could use a shower."

The sombre mood between them lifted as they both broke out into quiet chuckles, "I'm sure I could. How did you know how much tea I have?"

Matthew's fingers removed themselves from Arthur's and picked up the cup, setting it down again carefully, nodding his head as it clinked against the saucer, "And that is the sound of half a cup of tea being put down."

Retrieving his beverage from the Canadian, Arthur finished his tea, listening to the chink it made as he set it down, trying to memorise the high, ringing clink for future reference as he got up.

"And now I should be going," the Englishman sighed, patting down his pockets to make sure he had everything he came in with, not that it really mattered. They were only a floor apart, after all.

"Arthur?" Again there was hesitancy in Matthew's voice, and something hidden, which there hardly ever was so in that respect it was truly unusual.

"Yes?" Arthur said, standing stock still while the Canadian got up and moved closer, closer until his arms wrapped around the Englishman in an all-encompassing hug. His face was pressed against Matthew's neck as those long arms roped themselves securely around him.

"It's okay," was all Matthew said, one hand stroking calmingly over the Englishman's back. Arthur had a horrible feeling that he might just know what Matthew hadn't been telling him, and he hugged the lad all the closer for it.

~====o)0(o====~

It hadn't exactly been the nicest of days. The clouds had formed an oppressive, opaque shield, hiding the sun from earth's view as though man sought to steal it from the heavens. But still, the spring flowers were peaking though the last grey remnants of slushy, filthy snow and their sweet fragrance had filled the air, held in by the suffocating sky.

Arthur had passed this scene on the way home from work and had thought that Matthew might enjoy it. He'd been very careful about the time that he spent with Matthew these days, not daring to cross that line he knew he was just toeing. Not yet, anyway. That was a line he wanted to cross, but his suspicions had to be confirmed first. Arthur's conviction was growing by the day. All he needed was the right setting, and this seemed just about as perfect as it was ever going to be.

Together they walked through the common land, cool air blowing though their hair, pushing it back from their faces. Matthew's bangs looked like wings framing his face, now spread in flight, and that one curl he could never tame arched back, rearing against the wind.

Arthur, by comparison, just looked messy, but that was just what happened when his hair met the elements. One of the little things that Arthur Liked about Matthew – not the big things like his smile, or his dimple, or the way he laughed or the way he understood things without being told or how amazingly strong he was without even knowing it – was the way he never judged the Englishman based on his appearance. Even if Arthur had larger than average eyebrows and dressed like he was in his late fifties rather than his early thirties. All of these meant nothing to the Canadian, and that made him so very, very happy.

"Here," Arthur said, pausing to pick a flower. Taking Matthew's hand, he laid the flower in the centre of his palm. The younger man raised his other hand, gingerly stroking the petals. Softer than silk and a thousand times more delicate. He felt the curve of the petals, the pointed tips. Lifting it up, he sniffed it and the rich, thick scent of honey fogged his mind.

"It's beautiful," the Canadian concluded softly, smiling at the flower in his palm, letting the wind snatch it away from him, "But I thought you weren't allowed to pick flowers here."

"It was the same colour as your eyes," Arthur said, trying to cover the nervous tension in his voice with failed nonchalance, "And no, I don't think you are."

Matthew smiled, "Well, I didn't see anything."

They walked on, moment lost.

Every so often, they would stop and Arthur would describe something for Matthew, or give him a flower to feel. Once it was a frog that the Englishman tipped into his cupped palm and they both laughed when after the Canadian was done yelping in surprise.

That was of the many things that Matthew liked about Arthur; - chiefly among which were the way he laughed, the way his voice sounded (so calming and evocative, and the accent was just perfect), the way his hands felt, the way he made the Canadian's heart thump, the way he smelt like soap and tea and all the things that somehow added up into 'home' in Matthew's mind – the way he never seemed to view his sightless ness as an inconvenience. The way he almost seemed to relish describing things for him, like the way that the clouds were glowing sickly on the horizon line, promising that sunshine would eventually come. He was good at describing things, too, never relying on colours that Matt couldn't see or understand. No silly hues or shades. Red. Blue. Yellow. Black. White. The basics.

"Matthew, lad?" Arthur asked as they walked, watching the white stick the Canadian was holding sweep across the path in front of them, skittering left to right – as steady as any heartbeat.

"Yes, Arthur?" the blind man's face was upturned, feeling the faintest speckling of rain against his skin, smelling the cool heaviness of it in the air. Rain smelt like grey, he'd always thought.

"You're not much in for relationships, are you?" he asked, idly curious was what he was going for, but he ended up sounding tentatively hopeful.

A nervous chuckle floated for a moment in the silence before the question was answered.

"No. Not really. My circle of acquaintances isn't really that large and no one really wants to be the loser who got dumped by a blind guy. Or the jerk who dumped him. A girl called Stacey Matheson let me feel her up behind the bleachers in Alfred's senior year. She felt sorry for me and flat out said so, which was kind of unnecessary. I got my own back, though. Once I was done, I thanked her for helping me confirm the suspicion that I was gay. You should have heard the noise she made; she sounded like a pterodactyl," there was a faint smile on Matthew's lips as he reminisced, "I suppose I've only really dated a few times, and it never lasted long. What about you? Why the sudden interest?"

"What a trollop," Arthur sniffed. He hoped Stacey Matheson ended up working on a pole, but that was perhaps a little harsh of him. He still thought it, though, "I really don't understand what your not being able to see has to do with whether someone would like you or not. It's not exactly a defining part of who you are. Why I would hazard that you see better without eyes than most people do with them," Matthew smiled quietly to himself and Arthur bit his lip. Well, he supposed he had opened himself up for that line of questioning, "I used to 'date', as it were, quite a lot when I was younger. Not so much now that I'm working full time. Between you and the ER, I can't say I'd either want or need a partner," another pause, this time to weigh his words, "It's not really a sudden interest, more like a slow interest that has just reach that train of thought."

"You could spend less time with me, you know," There it was again, the tense undertone to his voice, "I don't need you to look after me."

"Of course you don't. But the very last thing I want to do is spend less time with you. I'd like to spend more time with you, if I could," It was just as well that Matthew couldn't see the blush in his cheeks, so he didn't have to pass it off as the cold.

The Canadian stopped walking and turned to face where Arthur's voice was coming from, "Seriously?"

"Deathly serious, I'm afraid," they stood there, letting silence lengthen and slowly break apart, tension fading.

Arthur looked down at the hands that they were holding; he had been guiding the Canadian along the path by it. Slowly, his fingers detangled themselves and wandered up the younger man's arm, up to his shoulder, ever so gently up his neck until it cupped his cheek. First the younger took a step forward, and then the elder, until they were barely a hair's breadth apart.

"Matthew?" the Englishman's tone was perfectly reasonable and quite calm.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"I should very much like to kiss you right now. May I?"

Matthew just smiled.


End file.
